He steps in and closes the door.
“I have come to see that you have all you need.”
“Thank you, Will. I am well provided for.”
She sees he holds a bottle in one hand.
“Have you been drinking, Will?”
“I am wedded to the rum, madam. Will you join me in a small glass before you retire?”
“No thank you. I’m not certain that is proper, Will.”
“Och. I only propose a glass, then I’ll be gone.”
She can’t help but smile back at him and nod.
He sets a glass on her writing desk and fills it to the brim.
“Careful, Will. It is strong drink, I think.”
“There’s none stronger, madam.”
“Will you have a chair? I have only one, but I can sit on my bed.”
He sits.
“What manner of beast is this?” she pokes at the great black fur that covers the bunk.
“That would be black bear, madam, but ever so dead.”
“I’m not sorry. Do they have these at Nepisiguit?”
“They do. I’ve seen ’em myself, foraging for the berries and such. They can turn against a man, if the mood takes them. And then they won’t just kill him in a moment, but eat him too.”
“God preserve us. Tell me more about Alston Point.”
“It’s a bonnie bit o’ land that juts out into the Baie de Chaleur—that’s what the old Frenchman Cartier called it—the Bay of Warmth. What a dickens would make him call it so I don’t know. It’s only warm by comparison with the North Atlantic. But that’s where the commodore’s built his summer camp. Five large stores an’ all sorts o’ outhouses and such. He even has himself a battery to defend the place.”
“But who would dare attack him?”
“Aweel, madam, ye ken the French. Ye canna trust them. An’ now there’s them from the colonies who hate the English, though they were Englishmen themselves a few years before. They’ll be makin’ mischief, be sure. But to say, the commodore has his winter house farther along the harbour.”
He pours himself another glass.
“He commands the only trading post in the great northeast, all the lands around the bay and the great forests that grow to the south and the west. Lumber, moose hides, bearskins and furs of all kinds. Whale fat as well—fell guid troke. That’s Scots, madam, for excellent business. Tusks of the walrus an’ the fish. All them waters swarmin’ with cod, herring, mackerel and
salmon—so many they are, the fishing boats make two or three runs a day into the water. Then, in the winter months, the commodore sets his men to shipbuilding.”
Charlotte feels sleepy, and knows that no matter how talking with Will chases her ghosts and fears away, it is time for him to leave her. Standing, she says, “Will, I confess I must retire. I am tired.”
“I shall leave you to your dreams.”
He draws himself up and opens the cabin door. “Sleep well, madam.”
W
HEN DAWN BREAKS
two days later, she knows they have left the tropics behind. The water is transformed from turquoise to navy blue, white caps trim the small waves and the salt air, though still warm, is fresh. For days thereafter, the
Achilles
is carried north in the current. By day, Charlotte watches the ceaseless labour of the sailors—the mending, tarring, braiding, patching, climbing, sawing, nailing—and tries not to take an unseemly interest. Yet she wishes she could be part of the crew if only to have something to do. She is instead expected to stroll the deck, rest in her quarters and be available for dinner conversation with the officers.
She regularly retires to her cabin and takes up her copy of
Clarissa
.
… But here is Miss Harlowe, virtuous, noble, wise, pious, unhappily ensnared by the vows and oaths of a vile rake, whom she believes to be a man of honour: and being ill used by her friends for his sake is in a manner forced to throw herself upon his protection; who, in order to obtain her confidence, never scruples the deepest and most solemn protestation of honour
.
So it was for Clarissa. But I have escaped all vile rakes, Charlotte thinks. And am I not, in fact, the one who never scruples the deepest protestations of honour?
There is a knock and when she opens the door, it is Will, who had not spoken to her since his late-night visit.
“The captain would have you join him for dinner, madam.”
“I dine with the officers each evening, Will. Is this one to be different?”
“The captain asks if you could join him in his quarters for dinner.”
“Ah. Very well. Thank you, Will. Tell Captain Walker I would be most honoured.”
“I will, madam. Dinner will be at eight.”
S
HE ATTEMPTS
to lift her hair with pins and combs, but her success is limited. Here for a second time she would be the private guest of the commodore. She thinks again of his grave, weathered countenance, the brilliant shock of white hair, the perfect poise with which he takes command of his vessel. And wonders again of his intentions.
At eight, Harding comes to escort her on the short walk to the captain’s cabin, it being a deck up.
Walker’s private quarters are a frank delight, with every appointment possible in so small a place. The furniture is of quality and deeply polished. There is a good Turkish carpet on the floor and several charming paintings in the rustic style. A small fire glows in the grate, not unwelcome now, as they are wafted ever farther up the coast toward the North Atlantic Ocean.
“What a splendid sight you are for these eyes, Mrs. Willisams.”
“If you would call me Charlotte, commodore …”
“If you will call me George.”
“Thank you, George. Your kindness has deeply touched me.”
They settle comfortably in chairs before the fire. Walker attends to the filling of their glasses with his old Madeira while Charlotte seeks better knowledge of her saviour. His fame as a British privateer was widespread, as she now knows. He was particularly remembered for valour in his engagement against the Spanish battleship
Glorioso
.
“But the wilds of Nova Scotia? However did you come to be there?”
“Ah, my dear. You’ve seen a little hardship already in your young life, but much more may lurk for any of us. Twenty-five years ago, in London, there was a group of exceptionally greedy and politically influential owners of a squadron of four ships. The ships together were known as the
Royal Family
and I was in command of those vessels. These owners were most injudicious—and that is the best I can say—in their handling of others’ monies. When it became clear that the company was in a state of calamitous ruin, someone had to be blamed, someone had to be made bankrupt. I was that person. Someone also had to be imprisoned for debt that wasn’t his. I was that person too. Five long years later, the House of Lords heard my case and cleared me of all charges.”
“You were betrayed.”
“Betrayal, my dear, is a common recourse when the loss of money is encountered. Upon my release, I sailed immediately for Nova Scotia. The King’s administrators are not always as wise as they might be or as we might like. No one in the colonial office in Halifax had any interest in the northern shores of Nova Scotia when I arrived in 1764. The fishery, of course—everyone knew it to be a trade of very great proportions. But the French settlers—have you heard of them, the Acadians?”
“I have.”
“They were transported by their thousands to cause us less trouble. A most unpleasant, most regrettable business. They had been firmly anchored in their Arcadia, as they called it, for a century and a half and one way and another, many came back, or other Frenchmen came in their place. His Majesty’s government saw the French peril as very real.”
“And was it?”
Walker stares into the fire in silence. “A bad business indeed,” he finally says. After a moment, he looks up.
“Look, your glass is empty. This must not happen.”
He pours, then sits back and stares into the grate.
“It was most difficult to persuade English settlers to move into an area so distant from the populated southern regions. But as a younger man I had once been charged with the task of charting the coastal waters of my native Scotland. I established fishing posts there and settled hundreds of families. I saw a valuable prize for the taking in this New Scotland, largely despised, like the old. That is when I established the fishing station and trading post at Alston Point. It was 1768.”
“It seems almost more than one man could do.”
“If you live long enough, my dear Charlotte, and must work for a living, it is surprising what comes about.”
There is a knock on the door and Harding enters holding a tray almost too wide for the door.
“Come in, my good man, come in and set it down here. That’s it. Very good. How is everyone tonight?”
“They are all well, sir.”
“Very good. Have Mr. Hampton send you up with a flask of my best claret.”
“I have it ready, sir.”
“Good. Fetch it then.”
Walker lifts the covers.
“I’m a Scot by birth, Charlotte, but I love my roast beef as any Englishman.”
“Oh, George. It looks splendid!”
“Here. Thank you, lad. You may go, and see you get some sleep.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Walker fills Charlotte’s glass with claret.
“Your health.”
“And yours, commodore.”
They eat a while in silence.
Hoping to avoid the conversation about her so-called circumstances she guesses she’s here to have, Charlotte asks him about Nepisiguit.
“I’ll get to that detail in due course, but now I want to talk about you.”
She sits very straight in the chair he has provided and waits for him to take the lead in the discussion. She knows he’s a man who doesn’t dawdle with words and she’s quite certain now that he knows more about her than she has considered.
“Are you by chance the daughter of Charles Howe Taylor?”
Her cheeks flush. She drops her head and in a barely audible voice says, “Sir, I am his daughter.” Charlotte doesn’t know how to continue the conversation and sits staring into her skirts until finally conjuring up the courage to ask him how he had discovered the truth.
“Lutz told me more than your widowhood. He said he was suspicious about your circumstances from the moment you turned up at his plantation. He saw you as a woman of some means and, how can I put this—your man as one of fewer means.”
Walker takes care to describe the predictable background of couples who flee their homes for the New World. He doesn’t want to back her into a corner or force a lie, so continues gently, “Invariably they are running away from something. In your case, Lutz wondered if it was a forbidden marriage or, perhaps, no marriage at all.”
But how did he tie this presumption to her proper name, she inquired. “Lutz told me that the plaque on your trunk is inscribed with the name Charlotte Howe Taylor. Now I have seen it for myself. In truth, your person—your flame-coloured hair, your height, give your identity away. You are the image of your father.”
Now clearly anxious but in some ways relieved, Charlotte has questions of her own. How does he know her father and what will he do with her when this voyage is over?
The commodore assures her that his intentions are honourable. “You couldn’t be left with that reprobate Lutz. He would have used you unpleasantly. I am hoping that I can still convince you to return to your father’s home on the ship sailing from Nepisiguit next month.” Charlotte is trembling. Her father would shun a pregnant daughter. Can she tell the commodore the truth? Instead she asks, “How has my father come to be your acquaintance?”
He tells her they were in business together in the merchant marines. In describing the business arrangements, he also submits his concerns about the lagging economy the men worked in. “England is suffering in financials. Trade isn’t as profitable as it was. And the threat of war with the colonies takes ships and men from the trading business.” She asks about Misters Baillie and Schollbred and whether they would have been visitors at her father’s home. “Yes, they are known to the general as well, business
associates they are. They may have frequented your home but that I doubt, as they conduct their affairs in grand offices in London.”
He changes the subject, saying, “Tell me of your life in Sussex.”
Charlotte persists as there are details she needs to get on the table.
“George, as you now know, I left my family in haste, without my father’s approval. What I can tell you about the life I left behind is that I have an inheritance, a sizable sum from my maternal grandmother. As a woman alone, I need to secure my lawful right to that income.”
There, the matter is on the table at last. Then as though considering her surprising commentary, the commodore shares a tale of his own.
“Well then, now that we are sharing more intimate details, let me sound you out on a matter. I have received recently a letter from a very dear friend in Edinburgh. He is a man of sixty-five and never married, but enjoys the fruits of a long life and a busy one. He is vigorous in every respect but wearies somewhat of matters of trade.”
“Unlike yourself.”
“We are both alike and unalike. But as I say, he is in Edinburgh. Now my friend writes me not a fortnight before I sailed to Jamaica to tell me of a somewhat extraordinary turn of events. It seems his lifelong patron—I cannot tell you the man’s name because he was a person of high note in that city—his patron made certain investments in certain coal ventures in Yorkshire by which he was to lose his entire fortune and, as a consequence, he suffered a most terrible shock about a year ago and was carried off within days.”
“He died of grief for his fortune?”
“He did, his good wife having died some years before for quite different reasons.”
“Pray, what became of the coal mines?”
“It would seem there were none, not in the particular parcel of Yorkshire claimed by the principles in this case. But here is my concern. My friend’s patron had a daughter, an attractive woman whose prospects were damaged beyond repair by her father’s misfortune. Of course my friend was most solicitous of her well being and offered his assistance in every way possible. But—here it is—he was quite unprepared for her confession that she loved him with all her heart and desired only to be his wife.”